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A cursory glance through the pages scattered on the desk didn’t reveal anything interesting, and the thumb drive continued to hum, so she tried opening one of the desk drawers instead.
Jackpot.
The top drawer opened without so much as an unlocking sigil, and Fey found herself looking down at a row of carefully organized manila folders. She picked through them at random, pulling out a few to read what lay inside. It was mostly invoices and receipts, exactly the sort of boring documentation you’d expect from managing a club.
Fey sighed, frustrated.
She didn’t know what she had expected. A folder marked “Here’s what happened to Alice Kelly”? Still, the disappointment left a sour taste in her mouth.
Joy’s drive gave one final hum and went silent. Perfect, Fey thought. She returned the file she was flipping through—some sort of expense report for liquor—to the drawer and was just about to reach for Joy’s thumb drive when a voice growled from behind her.
“Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing in my office?”
Fey squealed and twisted around to find herself trapped between the desk and a Vampire.
And just her luck—he looked angry enough to rip her limb from limb.
Chapter 8
ALASTAIR
This day just keeps getting better and better, Alastair thought bitterly, watching as the Demon tied to a chair in front of him broke down sobbing.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, I swear it,” he blubbered. The collar of the Demon’s cheap silk shirt was wet with tears and snot. “Please, I promise I didn’t do anything. You’ve got the wrong guy, I swear!”
Pathetic.
Lesser Demons were always like this, all bluster and slick words, but underneath the cocky attitude, they had no fucking backbone. They played the part of tough, powerful little shits, but the moment you threatened to cut off just one ear, suddenly here comes the waterworks.
Boo-fucking-hoo.
Alastair dug the blade across the Demon’s jaw a little harder, drawing a line of blood, and he was rewarded with a fresh sob from his captive. This was almost too easy.
“I think you do know what I’m talking about,” Alastair told him calmly. He applied a little more pressure to the knife, dragging the blade up and under the Demon’s earlobe, but not pressing hard enough to do any real damage. Not yet anyway. “See, I can smell a lie from a mile away, and guess what? You’re lying to me right now. You fucking reek of it.”
The Demon tried to say something else, but his sobs were so loud and so disgustingly wet that Alastair couldn’t understand a single word. The guy could barely breathe through the crying, and as Alastair watched, a glob of snot fell from the tip of the Demon’s nose and onto the front of his shirt, leaving a long string of slime hanging in its wake.
Disgusted, Alastair straightened, taking the knife from the Demon’s face and moving far enough back to ensure he was out of slobbering distance. He didn’t care much about getting blood on his suit, but with all the stuff dripping out of this guy right now, he’d just as soon avoid getting too much of this asshole’s fluids on himself.
Two hours ago, this know-nothing Fallen was drinking up a huge tab in Alastair’s club and enjoying his night. Two hours ago, he was having fun, laughing and dancing, picking up chicks. Two hours ago, he made the fatal mistake of trying to sell drugs under Alastair’s fucking roof.
Other Vamps sometimes asked him why he employed a full staff of Wolf Shifters to tend the bar and run his security, why he didn’t stack the club with Vampires, and his answer was always the same: A Wolf can smell drugs better than a Vamp ever could. Alastair would let a lot of shit fly in his club, but drugs were something he wouldn’t tolerate. This is why he kept the Shifters under his employ paid well enough to keep them loyal. A good paycheck ensured his employees came to him the second they sensed any of that shit in his club.
And that’s exactly what happened tonight.
“Here’s what we’re going to do, you little shit,” Alastair said to the Fallen, speaking a little louder than necessary so he could be heard over the sound of the Demon’s crying. “You’re going to tell my friend Ferus here every single person you sold to tonight. And then you’re going to tell him exactly who gave you the drugs, and who made you think even for one fucking second it was okay to bring this shit into my territory.”
The Demon was shaking his head, saying something that just came out as wet mewing. Alastair ignored it. He was done with this asshole, anyway.
Alastair motioned for Ferus, who leaned against the wall, and the Wolf gave a solid grunt and straightened. Ferus was huge, six foot seven, and nothing but muscle. Alastair had never seen his Wolf form, but even his human form was feral enough to scare the piss out of most hardcore patrons.
When Alastair’s favorite bartender had smelled drugs on this piece of shit Demon two hours ago, he’d immediately sent word to Ferus, who’d brought the dealer back here. They’d found enough baggies full of devil dust on him to know he was a fucking dealer, but that’s not what was pissing Alastair off so much.
This was the second small-time dealer that had been caught in his club in as many weeks. The second low-life Lesser Demon who thought he could pull this shit under his nose. The second round of baggies all marked with the same symbol. All from the same supplier.
“I want to know who you’re selling this shit for.” Alastair waved the baggy underneath Mr. Sobs-a-Lot’s nose, making sure he got a good long look at the symbol printed there. “And after you’ve told Ferus everything you know, then you and I can have a good long chat about whether you’re going to walk out of here alive.”
Alastair’s knife was wet, a combination of blood and tears, and he wiped the blade clean on a dry patch of the Demon’s shirt. The way he flinched away from the knife made Alastair smile coldly.
